The OneEyed, OneHorned, etc League
by Ad Absurdum
Summary: Odd advertisements, strange people and Lestrade and Gregson. Any connections among those three? Not really, but Holmes and Watson investigate.


_**A/N**__: This is mostly a parody of The Red-Headed League. Apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for so besmirching his characters' reputations.  
The title is taken from a song "Purple People Eater" composed by Sheb Wooley and one joke is completely stolen from Lano & Woodley's "The Island"._

_**Disclaimer:**__ Characters – not mine. No profit made._

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**The One-Eyed, One-Horned, Purple People Eaters' League**

It was on a fine autumn day sometime last year, that the singular affair which I am about to describe began. No, dear reader, I am certainly not going to disclose what year it was nor what year it is now, for it is indeed my intention to obfuscate the timeline of Holmes's adventures as much as possible. Then I shall be able to write a few compendia devoted solely to the purpose of addressing the matter of said timeline, as Holmes has been threatening for some time now – well, actually since the day I started chronicling his cases for The Strand – to put stop to my writing about his work. I am not really sure why he would do that. It is, of course, probable that he finds my referring to him as being queer, languid, earnest and of generally dual nature tiresome and also suggestive of certain things that are not entirely true at best and criminal at worst.

Well, if he wished to avoid that, he should have married some nice girl like every red-blooded Englishman does, instead of being one of Nature's bachelors and reading Catullus (unabridged and peppered with indecent litographs – I saw the volume on his bedside table myself ).

Anyway, since it is possible that one day my stories will simply cease to continue, I am going to make sure the readers' thirst for all things pertaining to Mr Sherlock Holmes remains satisfied.

Also, there is this Baring-Gould fellow who keeps asking me if he could work as my secretary. It is, I admit, a tempting offer and an infallible cure for my writer's cramp but I don't think Holmes would tolerate another chap living with us and I do not, in truth, fancy literary competition.

Returning, however, to the singular affair which I mentioned at the beginning of my narrative, it started with a simple newspaper.

I was perusing _The Times_ when an advertisement of a most unusual kind caught my attention. It ran along these lines:

To Retired Army Surgeons:

_Retired? a surgeon? battle-hardened? (and still your barmy detective friends can reduce you to tears?). We have just the job for you. Manufactory of artificial knee-caps seeks men who are sound in body and mind and are willing to test our newest products. High pain threshold required, but salary more than average. Apply to Mr Duncan Ross, Kink's Cross 11._

"I say," I said. "That's a peculiar announcement."

I thought there was something oddly familiar about the description.

"What is?" Holmes looked up from reviewing notes for his latest monograph. It was to be titled _The Benefits of Reaping What You Sow_ – my friend's gardening passion was back with a vengeance.

I strongly suspected Holmes added some unsavoury substances to the water for the plants. Either that or he just scared the poor flora into flourishing beyond all measures. There were few people and fewer things on this Earth that wouldn't have eventually bowed to the detective's masterful will.

"This is." Returning to the matter at hand, I read the strange advertisement to Holmes.

"Hum," the great man hummed, threw me a half-speculative and half-guilty glance, that I had no hope of ever deciphering, and said, "You seem to possess some of the desired characteristics. You can go and see for yourself if the business is indeed as strange as you think."

"Perhaps you are right," I replied, but my friend was already once more engrossed with his papers and muttering something about a spade, fertiliser and – curiously – Moriarty. Or possibly Moriarty as fertiliser – I couldn't quite follow his line of thought this time. Which was, by no means, a rare occurrence, but I fancy that now I was more adept at comprehending the leaps and somersaults of deductive reasoning Holmes's mind performed regularly than I had been when we met for the first time.

And so it was the next day that I took Holmes's advice and then a hansom cab to Kink's Cross, with the intention of finding just what exactly the advertisement promised.

It seemed that I was not the only gentleman in London to have this idea. Indeed, the street was crowded with men of almost every age, that is to say, mostly between juvenile twenty and senile fifty, waiting and speculating wildly about what they were waiting for. I had no idea there were so many retired army surgeons in our metropolis. I would have felt quite at home with them, sharing some of the more colourful and grisly details of our service in various regiments if not for the fact that my association with Holmes provided me with all the colourfulness and grisliness I could take.

Having reached this rather unhelpful and disturbing conclusion, I bent my steps towards the nearest public house, where I chanced upon Inspector Lestrade, crying into his Scotch. I had never observed the good Inspector being so emotional over a drink before. And this was not his first one either, as it turned out.

As soon as I was near enough, Lestrade seized the lapels of my coat and proceeded to tell me, in a somewhat garbled fashion, why he chose to drown his sorrows in alcohol. The reason was Inspector Gregson. Or rather the fact that out of four cases, to which Lestrade and Gregson were assigned together, Gregson solved three and a half.

Ah yes, now the connection was clear – Inspector Gregson was Scottish.

Lestrade was naturally a little distraught by his self-presumed incompetence. The straw that broke the camel's back (or in this instance, Lestrade's ego) was, however, Gregson saying that Mr Sherlock Holmes liked him better than he did Lestrade because he – Gregson, that is – was not only smarter but also better dressed.

"He isn't, you know." Lestrade finally let go of me and slumped over the bar.

"And Mr Holmes likes _me_ better, doesn't he?" The Inspector raised his wounded, yet hopeful, gaze.

I hastened to reassure him that this was indeed the case, although I knew Holmes was equally ill-disposed towards either inspector. I did not think such a revelation would have brightened Lestrade's dampened spirits. Pun intended.

We chatted amiably for a while. When I say 'chatted' I mean Lestrade sobbed, sniffed and made unfavourable remarks about Gregson while I pretended to listen. And when I say 'a while' I mean two solid hours.

We finally parted when Lestrade fell off his seat to the floor, where he immediately fell asleep. My conscience did not allow me to leave the fellow, so I hailed a hansom and having explained the directions to the driver, hustled Lestrade into it.

Upon my return to Baker Street, I found Holmes just as I had left him – by the fireplace, absorbed in his papers.

"And how is our good friend Lestrade?" he suddenly asked, not even raising his head.

"Why, Holmes," I cried. "How could you possibly know I met Lestrade?"

"The front of your overcoat is rumpled, you smell faintly of beer and Scotch and you are holding Lestrade's pocket watch."

Indeed, I was. Fearing that in his considerably inebriated state the Inspector would be an easy prey to thieves and pickpockets, I took his more valuable things with me. Naturally, I intended to return them when Lestrade recovered from today's exertions.

"And Gregson was here, saying he lost Lestrade somewhere near Kink's Cross," Holmes continued. "Apparently they had an argument on their way to the Yard and Lestrade just vanished after that. Mind you, Gregson did admit it might have been something he said."

Sherlock Holmes frowned and I sighed.

"You know, Watson," he gazed vacantly at the wall adorned with Queen Victoria's portrait, "sometimes I do wonder about our Scotland Yarders."

I could not say much to it so I bade my friend good night and retired to my room.

The next morning when I entered our sitting room at the relatively early hour of eleven, I saw that Holmes was already up and about. Well, 'up' might be too strong a word – he was actually sprawled on an arm-chair, his eyes closed, playing his violin. Rather horribly, I thought.

Then it occurred to me that he simply might still be in the arms of Morpheus, for in the past he had sometimes displayed this curious behaviour of playing in his sleep. He would succumb to his weariness and enter a lethargic state, but his fingers would still be holding the bow and moving it across the strings of his violin.

What emanated from the instrument couldn't be called music, but I did not hold it against Holmes who, of course, always corrected my observations. He insisted, rather adamantly, that in those instances he was not sleeping, but simply meditating. As a doctor, however, I can say with all the authority of my profession that meditation is not accompanied by snoring.

So, as I sat at the table and waited for Mrs Hudson to bring us breakfast, I snapped open a newspaper (loud enough for Holmes to wake up and put end to the infernal scraping noises of his bow) and began to read obituaries. I noted with no small amount of satisfaction that none of my patients had died yet. By Jove, I was good.

At that point Mrs Hudson brought our morning repast and I abandoned the newspaper in favour of the food.

Mrs Hudson still stood beside the table, but at the moment I felt no obligation to acknowledge her presence. I _was_ hungry, you know.

Our housekeeper gazed with acute despair in her eye at the state of the room. It was more cluttered than usually: in addition to Holmes's papers that lay strewn all over the floor, said floor was also covered, here and there, with a strange powder of bright orange colour. That was going to be a pain to get out of the carpet. I winced on behalf of Mrs Hudson who clutched her bosom, looked heavenwards, heaved a long-suffering sigh and then finally left.

When Holmes, having completed his morning ablutions after waking up a few minutes previously, sat at the table, I remarked that Mrs Hudson deserved some small gift which I intended to buy after breakfast. My pronouncement had quite an unusual effect upon my friend. He looked at me considerably alarmed and asked if I was absolutely sure that I wanted to marry Mrs Hudson.

"What?" I ejaculated with some surprise. "What are you talking about? Why would I want to marry her?"

No offence to Mrs Hudson.

"Well," Holmes said defensively. "The last lady you wanted to shower with gifts was Mary Morstan and we know how _that_ ended. It is only logical to conclude that this time the pattern of your behaviour will be similar."

Well, when he put it that way... No, it still did not make any sense whatsoever.

I hastened to reassure my friend that I had no wedding plans concerning Mrs Hudson and the gift was to be a small compensation for all the hard work with which our good housekeeper was burdened. That eased Holmes's mind and we ate our breakfast in silence.

"So," I began when I felt a spot of light conversation would aid our digestion. "What's that orange powder on the carpet?"

Holmes brightened visibly.

"Ah, that would be my new invention," he said with some pride. "Here, let me demonstrate."

He took a small amount of the powder and deposited it in an empty glass. Then he took a carafe filled with water, poured a little into the glass and stirred. The mixture fizzed for a few seconds and the powder dissolved. The remaining orange solution seemed to sparkle.

Holmes brandished the glass triumphantly.

"It's powdered lemonade. This one has an orange flavour. Here, taste it."

Trusting Holmes implicitly, which was never very smart, but I couldn't help it, I took a tentative sip. It did taste of oranges, I noted with astonishment. It was also distinctly tingly on my tongue.

"It's not particularly healthy," Holmes continued, eyeing the glass with thoughtful pleasure, "but it cleans the pipes of rust most satisfactorily."

I was glad I did not drink more.

"Really?" I said pushing the glass subtly away. "I imagine Mrs Hudson will be quite satisfied then."

"Quite," agreed Holmes. With a quick hand he brought the glass to his lips and gulped the remaining lemonade. Then he hiccupped ("'Scuse me," he murmured) and we ate the rest of our breakfast in peace.

Afterwards I sat in my arm-chair to finish reading the morning newspapers. Holmes remained at the table, but his grey eyes had already assumed that vacant expression which so often indicated his keen mind was working intensely. He was also absent-mindedly crumbling a bit of toast into his tea. The slow trickle of crumbs disappearing under the surface of the dark liquid trapped in an off-white china cup helped him to focus on the details of everyday life, as he had said to me once during one of our not infrequent philosophical debates.

Weird, huh?

Now, I observed all this through a small hole in my newspaper, which I surreptitiously made just for the purpose of studying my companion. Holmes had his silver pots, I had my peepholes.

After this small indulgence in our ritual parlour game, I actually began to read the newspaper again and my eyes fell on the _Lost & Found_ section or, more specifically, on the announcement that said:

_Lost: A Persian slipper, the right one. New, never worn, was lost three days ago. Last seen beside a chair on Hannover Square 3A_.

I looked from the paper to our mantelpiece. There it lay – I could not fathom how I had failed to notice it. A completely new Persian slipper, presumably already filled with Holmes's tobacco. Its bright fiery, golden and deep blue patterns a stark contrast to the previous slipper's faded greys.

"Holmes?" I ventured after staring at the thing for a while.

He grunted questionably.

"Haven't you just finished an investigation somewhere on Hannover Square?"

"Why yes, I have. And it was quite a profitable one too."

"Really?"

"Really."

Well, that wasn't very helpful.

"I see that you have replaced the old Persian slipper," I tried again.

"And I see that your powers of observation are as keen as ever. Nothing like stating the obvious, eh Watson?"

"Well, I—" I began piqued, but Holmes waved my words away.

"Yes, I replaced it because the old one had holes in it. I hope this satisfies your curiosity because I have better things to do than discuss exotic footwear." He rose from the table, went to his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

I really had no inkling as to the things with which he could occupy himself in there that would be so very interesting. Well, besides injecting himself with cocaine or morphine or mauling a cat. I could never distinguish if it was that or if Holmes merely practised the violin. With the door closed I found that the two sounded remarkably similar.

Faced with the situation I decided I might as well do something useful and spent the day at my practice, tending to my patients.

I had one very curious case: a man deathly afraid of the following plants. I suggested that he should keep strictly to the city and avoid the countryside. I also advised him to stop reading guidebooks to tropical islands. Such pamphlets were never good for people with overactive imagination.

The next few days passed uneventfully. I continued to find peculiar advertisements in _The Times_ and Holmes continued to ridicule or ignore them. One afternoon, however, I stumbled upon something that I thought could bring us some money. It had been some time since Holmes's last case, you see.

The advert said: _Two actors needed. Penny Lane Theatre. Cash; no experience necessary._

I showed it to Holmes who, quite unexpectedly, I must say, took a keen interest in it.

"Ah," he said.

And then he went back to cleaning his pipe.

After a few minutes, however, he said, "We should look into that tomorrow, Watson."

As he was saying that, he was looking into his pipe, but I was quite certain he did not actually mean the thing.

"I fancy we shall see something rather interesting at Penny Lane Theatre," he added.

Ha! I was right. I do not wish to sound like a conceited fool, but years of living with Sherlock Holmes sharpened my deductive powers to near perfection. My reasoning was like a mental sword cutting with ease through every convoluted conundrum like this one.

"Tonight, however," Holmes continued, "let us leave the workings of criminal minds behind. There is a concert at the Hall at eight. Fancy going out?"

I couldn't refuse such a thoughtful invitation and so we went.

Before we directed our steps towards the Concert Hall, we had taken a detour to visit one property at the back of Baker Street. I had no clue as to the purpose of this visit, but I was reluctant to ask Holmes, for he wore that peculiar gentle smile and looked at the world through languid dreamy eyes and that always bode ill for the criminal element. And made everyone in Holmes's vicinity, including me, a touch uneasy – he looked rather like a lunatic and often frightened the passersby, although I was fairly sure that even at those trying times he was fully _compos mentis_.

When we reached the mysterious goal of our detour, namely an old nondescript house, Holmes energetically knocked on the door. After a few moments, during which the great detective idly poked the pavement with his walking stick, the door opened to reveal a short bald fellow wearing a dressing gown.

"I hope we did not interrupt anything." Holmes smiled amiably.

The man looked at my friend with deep suspicion in his beady eyes. Then he cleared his throat and unconvincingly denied: "Not at all, Mr...?"

"Doyle," said Holmes. "And this is my twin brother Conan," he added, indicating me. "We call him The Barbarian, but that's a long story and a private family matter."

The gentleman before us appeared to be somewhat confused, and I shot Holmes a testy look. His diversion tactic was sometimes difficult to listen to, but it usually had the desired effect. It left utter chaos in people's minds, allowing Holmes to obtain the information he sought that much quicker. I never understood the mechanics of this process, but there you go.

"And what do you want, Mr Doyle?"

Aha! Holmes's tactic was working.

"Oh, we merely wanted to ask you, sir, if you thought about selling this place."

"Uh, no." The man's frown of confusion deepened.

"Okey-dokey then. See ya." Holmes turned on his heel and began walking away.

I cast a glance at the chap who had just been subjected to this parting gambit. He stood in the doorway with a blank expression upon his face, obviously dazed by Sherlock Holmes's logic and conversation methods. I could only sympathise.

"Holmes, what was that all about?" I asked when we were finally on the proper way to the Concert Hall.

My friend smiled mysteriously. "Did you observe the man's elbows and knees of his trousers?"

I think there is no need to say that I, in fact, did not.

"Well, your loss. But you'll see what I mean soon enough," he added in a conciliatory manner. "Now let us forget the matter for a while. Come, Watson."

We spent the evening immersed in music, listening to a German ensemble called Mendelssohn's Liederhosen, performing – as befitted their name – _Mendelssohn's Liederhosen_. It was very educational.

The next day Holmes, true to his word, decided to look into the matter of Penny Lane Theatre. He also decided it was an exceptionally good idea to wake me up at five in the morning and demand my assistance in said matter. Normally I would be more that delighted to offer my person, my trusty army revolver and my time to go gallivanting with Holmes wherever he pleased, but this time I felt the hour was a bit too early for such activities.

After lengthy discussion (by which word I mean Holmes sulking in the corner and me pulling the blankets over my head and falling asleep for another three hours) we reached a compromise and left for Penny Lane at ten o'clock.

Upon our arrival at the Theatre, however, it became apparent that the advertisement in the newspaper was indeed true.

Following the stage manager's directions we spent the entire day being part of the scenic landscape and adding the exotic flavour to the local production of _20000 Leagues Under the Sea_ renamed for this occasion _Weeds in the River_. We were dressed up as trees: Holmes was a willow and I had a costume of a larch and believe me, dear reader, our exotic flavour was very noticeable. Mainly because the plot of the play took place underwater while we took our place decidedly out of water.

I can still remember Holmes's long thin fingers swaying gently in the breeze as he put his not inconsiderable skills of an actor into portraying an honest, English – if a little bendy – willow tree. To this day the memory brings a tear to my eye and it is not only because Holmes poked me in the aforementioned eye with one of his twiggy fingers.

At the end of our working day we collected our pay and took a cab back to Baker Street.

When Holmes and I reached the door of our lodgings, however, two things revealed themselves. Well, actually it was Gregson and Lestrade who revealed themselves, stepping out of the shadows of a neighbouring alley.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," Lestrade greeted us, adjusting his slightly rumpled cravat while Gregson looked around furtively.

"Ah, Inspectors." Holmes favoured both men with an amiable glance. "Right on time, I see. Excellent. Pray, come in." And he ushered both Scotland Yarders inside.

As we were climbing the seventeen steps to our sitting room, Lestrade and Gregson in front of us, I asked Holmes, "What were they doing down there?"

"Discreetly settling their differences, I assume. Who cares, anyway?" He shrugged impatiently.

I blinked, hearing this puzzling, I must admit, information. Then I cleared my throat and tried again.

"No, I mean what are they doing _here_?"

"Oh. I sent a telegram to summon them. And you are about to see why, Watson," my friend replied with barely suppressed glee. "Right about now, in fact."

Holmes was indeed right, for at that moment Lestrade in one quick move opened the door to the sitting room, yelling: "What's all this now? Stop right there, you scoundrel!"

Inspector Gregson too stepped determinedly forwards and inside the room, although for reasons unknown, he looked faintly sick.

Holmes and I followed swiftly behind and the reasons for Gregson's sickly pallor soon became obvious.

Our sitting room looked different. And yes, this was an understatement. There was a hole in the floor through which we could see the room below, where – among other things – lay Mrs Hudson, quite unconscious.

I was not surprised. Poor woman must have fainted either from shock or those bricks that fell on her head and now lay scattered around our landlady. Personally I would be inclined to think the latter was the case.

Near the hole in the floor sat three... creatures. They resembled people except for their faces which were as bizarre as they were foul. For one thing they were purple – never a flattering colour and now even less so, for all the creatures also had only one eye. However, the most prominent feature was a huge horn protruding from each purple forehead. Most unbecoming.

"What are they?" I finally asked.

"Not humans, that's for sure," Lestrade answered with disgust. He still had his pistol trained on the creatures while Gregson sat trembling in the corner, clearly overwhelmed with the picture. That did not escape Lestrade's eye and he seemed to puff out his chest.

"Oh, what utter nonsense, Lestrade." Holmes strode towards the trio and pulled the masks (the masks! Oh, thank the Lord) off of their heads.

It did make a difference, though not as remarkable as one may have expected. The three fellows were still ugly. And a little purple.

Lestrade deflated a little and Gregson stopped trembling.

"Who are they?" he asked, clearing his throat and coming to stand, a bit awkwardly, beside Lestrade.

"Thieves," Holmes announced dramatically. "And quite resourceful ones," he added, eyeing the masks. "Though, in truth, they are not very smart."

"You wanted to rob Mr Holmes's house, didn't you?" Lestrade leant menacingly over the culprits.

I was impressed. The Inspector must have practised or something because the men looked quite thoroughly threatened. Hm, perhaps Scotland Yard had special courses for this sort of thing.

Holmes snorted. "Of course not, Inspector. What they were trying to rob was a bank."

"A bank?"

"And not just any bank. _The_ Bank of England. For that very purpose they rented a house at the back of Baker Street. Their intention: to dig a tunnel to the bank's vault. Obviously, they miscalculated and digged their way to our sitting room. Although," Holmes paused for maximum effect, "it was not entirely their fault. I used my clever confusion and distraction techniques to point them in the wrong direction. And here they are. That was quite a stupid enterprise gentlemen," Holmes told the prisoners and then he addressed me.

"You remember, Watson, our short trip before the concert yesterday. I asked you if you noticed this unpleasant gentleman's—" here Holmes indicated one of the men who, now that I regarded him closely, looked vaguely familiar "—elbows and knees. If you had noticed them, you would have seen that they were smudged with dirt and sand. Obviously they encountered that beach which lies hidden deep beneath London's pavements."

The detective lapsed into silence while we all pondered that particular remark. Finally Lestrade shook his head and stated in a brisk tone:

"All right, we won't be standing around here all day. Move." He motioned with his gun for the three thieves to stand up.

Gregson who had nicely recovered from his earlier shock, turned to Holmes and I.

"Mr Holmes, thank you for your invaluable work for the Yard. You and the Doctor are welcome to come with us and have a cup of tea. Perhaps it's not all we could do to thank you, but it will have to be enough. They've cut our budget, you know." The Inspector smiled uncertainly.

Holmes looked first at the state of our sitting room, then at the still unconscious Mrs Hudson and, having obviously put two and two together, accepted the invitation.

As for me, on the way to Scotland Yard's Headquarters I decided that our landlady definitely deserved a gift. Perhaps a prescription for morphine. After all, that was quite a bump she got there.

_The End_


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